


All I Needed Was the Rain

by MDJensen



Series: Me and Captain America [6]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Asexual Character, Caring Steve, Gen, Jerry never got over Susie literally dying in his arms, M/M, Sick Jerry, TW for blood, Unrequited Love, but Steve's looking after him, hospital love confessions, major Jerry whump, now he's shot someone and it's even worse, post 9x25, tw for vomit, worried steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Overtop of Danny’s exclamation comes the sound of two guns hitting the floor. Azra’s gun, which never fired.Jerry’s gun, which did.





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh my god.”

Danny’s voice is shocked and hollow.

“Oh my _god_.”

The second time, at least, there’s a hint of relief, as Danny, and Steve, process the scene. Overtop of Danny’s exclamation comes the sound of two guns hitting the floor. Azra’s gun, which never fired.

Jerry’s gun, which did.

Then there’s shushing and footsteps as Danny whisks Khalid from the room; Steve’s already at Azra’s side, clasping his hands around the wound on her ruined leg. She’s screaming. Below the sound of this, Steve can hear Jerry vomiting, and Lou calling for a bus.

Then Azra stops screaming. Shock, if she’s lucky, although Steve can’t rule out the possibility that she’s actually dying. It’s clear the bullet hit her artery. Blood pools on the floor around them, its movement familiar and not quite like water.

Lou brings the first aid kit and pulls out the tourniquet. Together they keep the woman alive until the paramedics come.

A few minutes later, Steve’s on his office couch. Trying repeatedly to take Jerry’s pulse, because Jerry’s shaking so badly that Steve keeps losing track.

He already knows it’s too fast. He’s trying to figure out if it’s calm-words-and-breathing-exercises fast, or call-another-ambulance fast.

It’s probably, honestly, the second one.

But Steve knows how he himself would feel, if somebody took him to the hospital just to sedate him; he’d feel even worse, after the fact, so he tries to avoid it. Instead he just stays at Jerry’s side. Keeps a hand on his back, keeps the trashcan steady in his lap whenever a wave of sickness hits him. Not that there’s much left to bring up. Most of whatever was in Jerry’s stomach is on the other side of the door, in a puddle a few feet away from the blood.

Steve gives up on the pulse. Times Jerry’s breathing instead, alarmed when he counts almost fifty breaths in a minute.

They can’t stay here. This isn’t helping anyone.

“Jerry,” Steve says, quietly. Jerry startles, but the movement of his head, to meet Steve’s eyes, is slow.

“I’m taking you home.”

Jerry tries to speak, but nothing comes. He clears his throat a few times and tries again. “Don’ I have to—‘slike, paperwork, ‘r s’mthin’?”

“Not tonight. Do you think you can stand up?”

Jerry nods.

For a moment he’s so unsteady that Steve revisits the ambulance idea. Jerry sways on his feet; lists against Steve’s side, heavy as a tree whose trunk has splintered. But with Steve’s help he stays upright. And they do make it out to the truck—though it takes a while, and by the time they get there all Jerry can do is curl up in the seat and shiver.

Steve drives; prays that Jerry will fall asleep. If he does, the plan is to keep going: head for the highway, and loop the island until Jerry wakes. Even if that’s not until morning. He’s got a full tank.

But Jerry doesn’t fall asleep. He just sits, hugging himself, breathing marginally slower now but still trembling head to toe.

Soon they reach Jerry’s apartment. Jerry gets to the door by himself, but then drops his keys twice trying to unlock it. He scowls blearily as Steve does it for him.

Inside, he stands and stares at his living room like maybe he’s never seen it before. Steve stays close, but doesn’t touch him. “You should lie down,” he advises, after a minute passes in silence.

Jerry sighs, and seems to shake himself. “No, I. I need a shower.”

“Okay. Go ahead. I’ll be out here.”

“’cause you think I’m gonna fall?” Jerry grumbles.

_Quite possibly_, Steve thinks; but aloud he says, “because I think you’re going to need someone to talk to tonight.”

Jerry says nothing, just lumbers from the room.

He’s in there for the better part of an hour. At first Steve takes his shoes off and lies down on the couch; but that opens the window too wide for his own thoughts, so he tidies up in the kitchen instead. Empties Jerry’s dishwasher, then loads the few glasses he finds in the sink. Then cleans the sink. Which leads to wiping down the counters, which leads to scrubbing beneath the grates on the stove, clearing away splatters of dried sauce and pieces of desiccated rice.

On two separate occasions he hears a bout of retching over the rush of water.

He’s just finished swiffering when Jerry shuffles in and sinks down at the table. He’s damp-haired, in sweats and a t-shirt; his eyes are bloodshot and a little spaced out, but at least he’s not shaking anymore.

Steve gets him some water. Then he settles in the chair beside him.

When the glass is mostly empty, Jerry sighs. “You didn’t have to stay, commander,” he grunts, not looking up.

Steve hesitates on the next words for a moment, licking his lips and taking a slow, deep breath before finally just saying them anyway. “I gotta be honest, Jer, I’m pretty worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And that’s totally understandable.”

“Then why are you worried?”

“Did you really just ask me that?” Steve smiles at the slight petulance, hoping it will earn him a smile back. It doesn’t. “Because you’re my friend. And you’re a member of my team. So I’m allowed to worry about you whenever I want to.”

Jerry doesn’t respond. Instead he picks his water glass up again, scowls at it, and puts it back down. Then he hides his face in his hands.

“Jerry,” Steve tries again, quieter now. “You’ve gotta realize that I’ve been where you are, man. Whatever you feel like saying, I’ll listen. And I’ll probably understand.”

He moves his hands away, but doesn’t raise his head. Encouraged, Steve leans closer. “Whatever you’re thinking, man, we can talk about it. I’m serious. You don’t have to worry about how it’s gonna sound to me. Let me help.”

Finally, painfully, Jerry sits back. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again.

“She’s gonna die.”

His voice cracks. He nods, and can’t seem to stop for a moment. “I’m gonna—I’m going to have killed her. Any minute now, I’m going to be—someone—who has killed someone.”

Out of nowhere, Steve remembers tracking down depleted uranium at the old naval base with Catherine. Desperate to come, Jerry had made up a story about hunting there as a kid. When he’d been found out, he’d been mostly sheepish—but Steve had the vague impression that he was a little offended they’d believed the part about hunting.

“She was at the hospital within ten minutes,” Steve reminds him, firmly. “I know it looked ugly, but her odds are actually really good.”

“No. I thought—” he cuts himself off with a hiccup, then presses on. “I thought I would just disarm her, y’know? Knock her down. I knew it’d hurt. But I didn’t think—”

“It’s hard to process,” Steve offers, when Jerry’s voice trails away. “To look at someone wounded like that, and know you did it.”

“I should’ve aimed lower,” Jerry mewls, hugging his arms around his belly. “But I—I’m not the best shot, I didn’t think—I didn’t think if I aimed for her lower leg—that I would’ve gotten it— still I didn’t think anywhere in her leg would—would be that fucking bad—”

“GSWs are incredibly unpredictable,” Steve says, and wonders if he got that sentence directly from a manual at some point. But he knows the truth of it from experience. He’s seen people survive bullets to the head, and he’s seen people die from bullets to a limb.

He doesn’t say the rest of this aloud.

“Jerry, listen to me. You saved my life. You know that, right?”

“There was just, like, more blood— than I would have exp-pected— oh fuck—“

He goes for the sink; he doesn’t make it. Watery puke splashes onto the just-swiffered floor, and for a moment Steve honestly thinks that Jerry’s going to cry. 

He doesn’t. He just stands for a second, staring at the mess; then he lunges over the sink and throws up again. 

Steve counts to ten before going to his side. Once there, he runs the water and lets it wash the mess away, then wets a paper towel and holds it out to Jerry.

Jerry doesn’t take it. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, and rocking a little, probably to the time of his pounding heart.

Steve shuts the water off, puts the towel down. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. “Can I put my hand on your back?”

Jerry nods, tightly. So Steve does, pressing between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay to be freaked out, man. But listen, even if you don’t try to, you’re gonna level out soon. So just hang in there.”

“I,” Jerry croaks, then has to pause. “I can’t stop thinking about—about her.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

“About Susie.” Jerry shudders as he pulls a breath, laboriously, like the air has to filter through cracks between stones. 

For a moment, Steve can't breathe, either. He still remembers Jerry in the minutes after Susie's death, hands bloodied, muttering to himself; still remembers seeing the pictures of Jerry holding Susie's body, screaming. “This wasn't anything like that."

“I know. I’m not comparing them. I know what I did was different.” He hasn’t released the edge of the counter, and as he speaks, he gazes into the sink. Steve looks too. Stares at the little drops of water that got left behind, when the rest of them went down the drain.

“The thing is,” Jerry continues, after a little while, “I know what it’s like. To watch somebody die from a gunshot. So, to have _caused that_—”

“She’s not dead.”

“But to—to be on the other side of that. Even though it’s different, I know. I can’t—I can’t take it. I did to somebody else what I watched happen to Susie. You know it’s been—it’s been like two and a half years. And I still dream about it. I _know_ what that looks like. I know—how much blood there is—I know what the bullet hole— looks— looks like—”

Another shudder, another splatter of vomit. This time around, Jerry does cry; tears and spit drip into the sink, and a quiet keening fills the kitchen. Steve rubs Jerry’s shoulders, making contact with both hands now.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, because the time for coherent comfort seems over. Now comes the time for nonsensical reassurances. “You’re okay, hey—”

“_Stop_.”

Steve stops.

Jerry wards him back with one trembling hand. 

“Please leave.”

“Jer—”

“I don’t want you to see me like this, commander. I’m serious. I’m _serious_,” he says again, when Steve doesn’t react.

For a moment he still doesn’t. Instead he looks Jerry over; sees that his nose is running, badly, and his hair is frizzing as it dries. His belly is hitching a little. But with sobs or fresh heaves, it’s hard to tell. “I’ve seen worse than this, brother,” Steve says, holding his hands up, pacifying. “You don’t have to be embarrassed—”

“_Steve_,” Jerry growls. “Get. Out.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes, though it maybe breaks his heart, a little. “But listen. Call me, and I’ll come. Midnight, three in the morning, I don’t care. Understood?”

Jerry doesn’t answer.

And Steve walks away, hoping that it’s the right decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. I know there's a few reaches in this. Mainly, that Jerry would have a gun. We saw promos of him in the shooting range with Tani, so I take that to mean that he's moving in that direction. There's nothing to say that he does have one now, but technically nothing to say that he doesn't (except I guess it would probably be moving too fast). Anyway, I hope you can suspend disbelief about that aspect. And that Jerry would be such a quick draw, being so new at it. But I digress. The next chapters are much more focused on Jerry and Steve's relationship, anyway; this was more or less a jumping-off point. Please do let me know if you enjoyed :)
> 
> Ah, the title is from an Elvis song. Because Jerry loves Elvis. And of course because the finale's title had to do with rain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes will have spoilers for season 10 social media posts.

Azra Hassan survives.

She also loses her leg below the wound.

Steve argues back and forth with himself as he drives back to Jerry’s, about whether he should give him the full story, or not. Just leave it at the fact that she’s alive. Given how upset Jerry was last night, Steve’s leaning towards option two, at least for now.

Hopefully Jerry’s calmed down somewhat, though. He didn’t respond earlier, when Steve texted him with an order to take the day off—but maybe he’d been sleeping? It had only been 0700.

Of course, Jerry hasn’t replied in the interim eight hours, either, which is part of the reason Steve’s headed over there now. Truthfully, he’d been waiting for an excuse. Telling him the news about Hassan in person seems as good an excuse as any.

At Jerry’s apartment, Steve parks, then rings the doorbell. Then waits. Rings the doorbell again, then knocks. He keeps an eye on his watch; forces himself to wait a full three minutes before he tries Jerry’s phone.

Still, no answer.

Moments like these are why he should really require everyone on the team to give him a spare key.

And fine, maybe he’s overreacting. Last night was rough, and if Jerry’s still sleeping, or hungover, or just doesn’t feel like seeing anyone—that’s his right. He’s not actually obligated to answer his phone, or door.

Still, Steve can’t stop himself from knocking one last time.

There’s footsteps inside, and the door swings open.

It takes actual effort not to flinch at Jerry’s appearance. His eyes are swollen, cheeks flushed; there’s dried blood on his shirtfront, and crusted in his nostrils, evidence of a nosebleed he didn’t bother cleaning up from.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

Jerry’s mouth works a little, before he can croak out a response. “It died.”

Steve tries to relax his posture. “Brother, you—you’ve looked better, man.”

Jerry heaves a sigh, saying nothing; but he leaves the door open as he turns away. Steve lets himself in and locks up. By the time he’s done so, Jerry is gone, though it takes no effort at all to find him in the bathroom, sitting slumped before the toilet with his head in his hands.

The lid and seat are both up. The air smells sour. Steve leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, careful to do so only loosely.

“Still nauseous, I guess?”

Jerry doesn’t answer; not that Steve needs him to.

“Keepin’ water down?”

Jerry’s voice is so small it’s almost lost, even in the silence. “Nope.”

“What was the last time you peed?”

Jerry raises his head then, and his typically friendly face is locked in an expression as stony and hollow as an ancient castle. “Last night, I guess.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “Hey, did you get _any_ sleep?”

But Jerry doesn’t answer; just hides his face in his hands again and scrubs, restlessly. Steve goes and sits on the edge of the bathtub.

“Hey. Listen to me. I spoke to the hospital, and Azra Hassan is going to be fine.” (Which seems an absurd thing to say, since her husband is dead and she’s going to prison. But he’ll save that agonizing for later.) “You hear me, Jer?”

Jerry grunts.

“You took a situation that easily could’ve turned deadly—for me, or you, or her—and you prevented it from going that far. You did exactly what you should have done.”

“I get it,” Jerry murmurs. And Steve’s pleased—until Jerry raises his head and clarifies, “I get it: I’m overreacting.”

Steve sighs. “That’s not what I said, man.”

“No, but it’s true. I’ve been tryin’ to talk myself down from it. I dunno why I can’t.”

Steve considers how best to phrase his question, before settling on: “is it mostly what happened last night, or is it mostly what happened to Susie?”

Jerry wraps his arms around his waist, as he considers the question. “Both? I dunno. And then part of me doesn’t even feel like—part of me just feels sick, y’know? Like I just caught something. Like I know that it started in my head but it—it feels like a real thing now.” He makes a noise that Steve generously decides not to call a whimper. “Am I goin’ crazy?”

“No, hey. Jerry, no you’re not.” There’s awkwardly little space, but Steve kneels beside him anyway. “You’re not going crazy.”

“_I feel like it_,” Jerry bleats.

“I know.” Steve brings a hand up, rubs Jerry’s arm. “I know. Here’s what I’m thinking. You got sick, you got dehydrated, and that made you feel more sick, which made you more dehydrated. And around we go. The good news is, you’ll feel a lot better as soon as we get some fluids in you. The less good news is, I think that means a field trip.”

Steve’s afraid Jerry will fight this, but he only nods. “Okay.”

“Okay. You have your phone on you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You keep your insurance card in your wallet?”

“Mm.”

“Where’s your wallet?”

“Prob’ly my nightstand.”

“Okay. Phone charger would be there too?”

Jerry nods again. Steve spends a minute going through the apartment, collecting Jerry’s wallet, charger, and keys and shoving them all in his own pockets. Then he grabs a trash bag, just in case. 

Back in the bathroom, he leans in the doorway and forces a smile. “You ready?”

“Mm?”

“Are you ready to go? I’ve got everything we’ll need.”

Jerry’s face crumples—and here’s the fight Steve was expecting. “No. No, ‘m gonna be sick.”

“Man, I know you’re feeling crappy. But that’s why we’re going.”

Jerry shakes his head again, fitfully; and Steve gets the sudden impression that there might be tears, if his body had any fluids left to spare. “I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna puke in your car, commander.”

“Jerry—”

Without preamble, Jerry lurches forward and begins to retch over the toilet bowl; the noise of it is harsh, bone-dry, and Steve’s stomach cramps in response to the obvious pain. He hesitates a moment. Then goes and sits on the tub again, and rubs circles across Jerry’s back.

When Jerry finally stops, his nose is bleeding again. His face is bright red but he’s not sweating—at all—and that worries Steve more than anything else has so far.

“Jerry?”

“Mm?”

“Trust me, please. Let me help, and you’ll feel better soon.”

Their eyes lock, for a long, quiet moment; then at last, Jerry nods.

First order of business is the nosebleed. Steve passes Jerry a box of tissues so he can clean himself up, pleased when no more blood comes to replace what’s been wiped away. Then it’s time to get Jerry standing.

On one hand, Jerry got himself up to answer the door less than twenty minutes ago; but given how long that took, there may have been a few failed attempts first. And even if there weren’t, Steve has the impression that Jerry’s handed the whole thing over to him now.

So Steve pulls him, bodily, to his feet. And no, it’s not easy—but it’s worse for Jerry, who sways, and grabs the towel bar for balance. Steve steadies him by the elbows and doesn’t let go.

“Lightheaded?”

“Mm.”

“Makes sense that you would be. Just take your time.”

Jerry grunts. With Steve’s help he makes it out of the bathroom and down the hall—then has to pause again, against a wall in the living room.

“If you can’t walk to the truck,” Steve says, keeping his voice light, “I can call an ambulance. It’s okay if you need that, man, I promise.”

“No,” Jerry rasps. “I can. I can.”

So Steve shepherds him from the apartment and out to the truck; once Jerry’s settled, Steve hands him the trash bag. It earns him half a smile. Then the expression fades, back to abject exhaustion, and Steve gets behind the wheel and heads for the hospital.

Jerry spends the whole drive staring, barely blinking, straight ahead. Once or twice Steve even feels a twinge of empathetic car sickness, even though he’s the one behind the wheel.

But they get to the hospital without the trash bag being used. In the ER, at reception, the woman working the desk smiles blandly and hands Jerry a bright blue emesis bag instead. Then Steve and Jerry find seats, and settle in.

The wait’s not long, not because Jerry is particularly high on the triage list but because it’s pretty empty. Steve’s glad. Though Jerry make it the whole ride over without being sick, he has three or four bouts of retching in the twentysome minutes they spend in the waiting room.

After the second, Steve sees the pattern. The spells come on when somebody enters the waiting room with blood on them.

But it’s less than half an hour before they call Jerry’s name. They get him in a wheelchair— SOP, Steve knows, though probably a good idea anyway— and a nurse pushes Jerry to an exam room, Steve trailing behind. 

She takes his stats; not unexpectedly, they suck. It’s been almost a full day, Steve reasons, since Jerry had any appreciable water intake, and in that time he’s been vomiting (a lot). He’s got to be badly dehydrated. Add that to extreme emotional stress, and being out of shape to begin with, and Steve’s not surprised that Jerry’s BP and temp are high, his blood ox low. And his pulse is the worst— scary fast, to be honest. But the nurse seems unconcerned, just swaps Jerry’s (barely) used emesis bag for a new one, hands him a gown as well, and tells them that somebody will be along soon. 

Left alone just the two of them, Steve pulls the curtain around the bed. They’re in their own little room but the entire front of it is glass, so he still feels the need for a bit more privacy. 

That done, turns back to Jerry, who’s upright in bed. “You want some help with that?” he asks, gesturing to the gown— unprepared for how red Jerry’s already-flushed face becomes. 

“Actually, I was gonna ask if you could, um. Leave for a minute?”

“Okay. I gotta pee anyway. Back in a few, okay?”

It feels strange, leaving Jerry alone even just for a minute; but Steve tries to shake off the hesitation. Jerry’s a grown man. True, it seems like he’s having at least a small fraction of a nervous breakdown—but that kind of thing happens. To more or less everyone. No reason to exclude Jerry from the list (except for that he always seemed—so strangely resilient—?)

Steve gets back from the bathroom to find Jerry wearing a gown over his sweatpants, his shirt folded neatly on one of the chairs. Steve settles in the other and leans forward. Half a minute later a young woman arrives with a laptop on a wheely cart, and spends a few minutes taking Jerry’s personal and insurance information. Then she leaves. Then the first nurse comes back, and, though Steve is well used to the staff parade of hospitals, he’s glad when this nurse starts in on the actual questions.

“All right,” she begins, regarding them both. “Tell me about what brought you in today.”

“Excessive vomiting,” Steve replies. It’s not until the nurse glances between them that he realizes the question wasn’t really his to answer. But Jerry just nods. 

“All right. About how long since this started?”

“Lil’ less than a day.”

“Any improvement in that time?”

“None,” Jerry murmurs. 

“Have you had any diarrhea?”

“No.”

“And have you had a fever?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“No.”

“We’re law enforcement,” Steve explains. Not because she needs to know everything, but because she should have at least some idea what she’s dealing with. “We had a— an emotionally difficult confrontation yesterday, and it started after that.”

She nods, accepting this. “Were you physically injured during this incident?”

“No,” Jerry murmurs. 

“Did you hit your head, even a little?”

“No.”

“Okay. I won’t pry. But is there anything else that we should be aware of, about what happened?”

Jerry shakes his head, face neutral; on the heart monitor Steve sees his pulse quicken. 

The nurse leaves. Not too long after, they’re seen by a doctor, and tell the whole story again. Steve has to grind his shoes against the tile to stop from tapping his feet in impatience.

But now, at last, they get somewhere.

“Here’s the plan,” the doctor says, after pausing only a second or two. “We are going to get you hydrated— like, pissing out your eyeballs hydrated.” Jerry huffs a laugh, and Steve gives silent thanks for doctors with real bedside manner. “Hydration,” she continues, “and something for the nausea. And given what you say about how this began, I’m thinking a mild dose of anxiety medication as well. Are you comfortable with that?”

Jerry nods. Steve has the distinct impression that he really just wants this all to have been done already, so he can stop talking about it.

“Good. In a few hours we’ll reevaluate, and hopefully you’ll be feeling a lot better by then.”

She leaves, and a new nurse arrives. Jerry’s so dehydrated that he can’t find a vein; he calls in the first nurse, who misses twice as well. There’s blood stains, now, on the hospital linen.

A discussion starts about finding a vein with the ultrasound when the first nurse finally succeeds; she starts Jerry on a bag of fluids, already hanging another for when the first finishes, and pushes a few syringes of other medications in as well.

And then, the bustle abruptly fades, and they’re alone.

Jerry lies back against the raised-back bed; it’s too soon for the meds to have made a difference, but he looks a little calmer already. Steve reaches out and gives his arm a brief squeeze.

“How are you doing?”

“Okay,” Jerry replies. His voice is still tight.

“All right. Give it another half hour, and I bet you’ll really feel the difference. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”

“Could,” Jerry begins, then pauses before starting again. “Could you just—talk to me? Please?”

“About anything?”

Jerry nods, and pulls the blanket that’s down by his knees up over his waist. Steve watches for a moment as he counts his breaths.

“Anything?” Steve laughs. “All right, bro, you asked for it. Anything.”

Steve tries his best to keep a running (mostly one-sided) dialogue going, though he’s not at heart a talkative guy. Still he tries. Tries, all the while wishing Danny were here, with his inimitable ability to converse at length about— well, anything. 

Somehow they get around to Steve’s tattoos. It’s about this time when the treatment finally starts to take effect. Jerry relaxes, puts his head back and listens to Steve ramble on about each aspect of both pieces—the meaningful, and the less so. 

“Little better now?” Steve asks, when he’s said all he can think to say. Jerry nods, and even manages a tired smile. “Good. See? Not to say I told you so. But it’s amazing how much better you feel when you’re not severely dehydrated.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“You want me to shut up now? So you can sleep?”

But Jerry shakes his head.

“No—no, if you can—please keep going? This is kind of embarrassing, but—it helps?”

“If it helps, then it shouldn’t be embarrassing. At all,” Steve replies. Then wracks his brain for half a minute, and keeps talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I could cry right now :( I thought we were safe after seeing Jorge on set! But the season 10 website header HAS EVERYONE BUT JERRY. That CANNOT be good news. So now I'm wondering-- did I misunderstand, and think that an old set picture was new? Or does Jerry survive but leave in one of the early s10 episodes? And if that's the case, I want to know if it was Jorge's decision or not. If it was, I'll be happy for him. I know he just got married and maybe he wants some time to settle into that :) but if it was not his decision... I will be LIVID...
> 
> Anyway. That's my rant for the night. Hope those of you reading are enjoying. I feel I got a bit disorganized with the medical aspects here, but my main focus was Steve/Jerry softness anyway. And there will be SO MUCH MORE in the next chapter....


	3. Chapter 3

Steve talks until his mouth is a desert, until he’s so short on topics that he starts telling Jerry about how he’s planning to re-caulk his bathtub this coming weekend.

Jerry stopped adding his own comments some time ago. Now he lies still, eyes closed, only the unevenness of his breathing telling Steve he’s still awake.

Mostly still awake. Four or five times he jerks back from the edge of sleep, until eventually, on one occurrence, Steve shuts up about silicone versus latex caulk and taps Jerry on the arm. Bloodshot brown eyes creak open.

“Jerry,” Steve says, keeping his voice low, “you should really let yourself sleep.”

“I know,” Jerry huffs, breathing too hard again. “I will soon.”

But not five minutes later, the doctor returns; Jerry shakes himself and sits up, fully alert now. The doctor checks his vitals, then gives him a smile.

“All right, Mr. Ortega, how are we feeling?”

“Better. Definitely better.”

“Good. Can you compare your nausea now to how it was before?”

“It’s—less so. Not gone. But not horrible.”

“All right,” she says, leaning a little against the counter. “Here’s what I’m thinking. It’s dinnertime. Let’s have you eat something light, and we’ll see how you do. If it sits okay I don’t think we’ll admit you. Sound like a plan?”

Jerry nods, and clears his throat a little before speaking again. “I’m sorry, could you just— could you tell— whoever needs to know— that I’m vegetarian?”

“Not a problem.” She stands. “Somebody will be around soon, okay?”

Then they’re alone again, and Jerry sinks back against the bed with a sigh. Steve looks him up and down. “You actually feeling better, or did you just say that?”

“No, I am. Still kinda queasy, but less overall awful. I guess that’s the fluids.”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s funny, but I like—something slaps my hand back any time I get to close to freaking out.” He snorts. “I guess that’s the Xanax.”

_Still won’t sleep, though_, Steve thinks, but doesn’t say.

“By the way,” Jerry continues, quieter now. “I literally didn’t realize how late it had gotten. If you need to go—I mean, you should. Seriously.”

For a moment Steve wonders if maybe Jerry would rather be alone—but decides almost instantly that that’s not the case. “Nah, man,” he replies, sitting back. “With any luck, you’ll be out of here in an hour or two. No point in leaving to come back.”

“I could have one of my other friends—”

“Jerry,” Steve interrupts. Jerry falls silent. “I’m in this with you, man. Don’t even worry about it.”

That gets him a smile, though it wobbles at the edges. “Okay.”

“Okay? Okay. C’mere, brother.” Steve sways to his feet, opens his arms to Jerry for a warm, easy hug. “Can’t lie, man, you kinda scared me.”

Jerry doesn’t reply, just nuzzles into Steve’s shoulder. Steve lets him pull away first.

“You should go get something to eat, though,” Jerry says, after he’s sat back. “Seriously, you can leave me alone for half an hour.”

Steve consents to this. Jerry does seem to be doing better, and it’s true that Steve himself is hungry—and viciously thirsty, from talking so long. So he heads down to the cafeteria. Gets himself a sandwich and a huge bottle of water, which he contemplates taking back with him but ultimately eats at one of the cafeteria tables.

By the time Steve gets back to the ER, Jerry’s food has arrived as well. He glances up from the pasta he’s stabbing lethargically as Steve returns, and settles back at his side.

“You get some dinner?”

“Yeah. Looked better than this, man.”

“Well, so, I guess the main veggie option today was a curry. But I said my stomach was _not_ up for that, so I think they gave up and threw some shit together.” On closer inspection, Steve sees that Jerry’s already eaten a banana and a Jell-O cup—which, yeah, makes for a pretty disorganized meal, but at least he’s getting something down.

With Jerry occupied, Steve leaves him be for a minute. He unplugs Jerry’s phone, at full charge now; pilfers the cord to plug in his own, then scrolls through his notifications. A few of the team have texted, asking after Jerry. And the story Steve gives them is true, technically: he’s shaken up but he’s going to be fine. Steve’s been keeping him company, and he’s eating dinner now.

All right—that’s a slight exaggeration, Steve concedes, as he looks up to find Jerry pushing aside the tray table with most of his pasta still on the plate. But there’s no shame in taking it slow. If that’s all Jerry can manage right now, then that’s good enough.

Steve sets his phone aside, regards Jerry with a casual smile. “How’re you doin’?”

“’m okay.”

“You want me to ramble some more?”

“No, that’s fine,” Jerry laughs, rubbing his nose.

“You want me to show you pictures of Eddie?”

Jerry thinks for a moment—then nods, somewhat shyly. So Steve drags his chair over and Jerry curls up at the edge of the bed, and they scroll through Eddie on the beach, at the park, in the bathtub.

It’s relaxed: almost normal. Theirs is a friendship of calm little moments like this one, and for a while only the backdrop of the exam room makes it anything different.

But the tranquility doesn’t last. Twenty or thirty pictures in, Jerry’s breathing quickens; not long after that he sits up, cross-legged, and scrubs his forehead restlessly.

Steve sets his phone aside. “You feelin’ worse again?”

Jerry nods.

“Okay. You’ll be okay.”

“Food’s really not sittin’ right,” Jerry mutters. He’s pressing himself upright with his arms at his sides, like he’s ready to get up and bolt. “Um.”

“Try to breathe through it,” Steve coaches, on his feet now. He runs a hand down Jerry’s back, finds him freshly trembling.

Jerry nods. Takes a few controlled breaths, then shakes his head. “’sno good. ‘m’nna puke again.”

“Hey, I’m gonna find a nurse, okay? We’ll get you some more meds. Just hang in there.”

Jerry nods; he accepts an emesis bag from Steve with unsteady hands, then opens it and sits with it clutched in his lap.

Steve hurries from the room, flags down the first face he recognizes. “Excuse me? My man in there, he’s pretty nauseous again. Can somebody check him out?”

A nurse arrives with more anti-emetic in less than five minutes; unfortunately that five minutes has been long enough for Jerry to vomit up every bit of the dinner he forced down. Steve’s perched on the edge of the bed, kneading the back of Jerry’s neck. Pretending not to notice the tears of effort and maybe frustration that Jerry wipes from the corners of his eyes.

The nurse injects the Zofran into Jerry’s IV. Then she swaps his used bag for a fresh one, and disappears to update Jerry’s doctor.

The doctor comes sooner than she did the last time. She reviews Jerry’s chart, then leans against the counter. “You broke our deal,” she says, with a smile that Jerry returns weakly. 

“I know.”

“So we’re going to keep you overnight. More fluids and anti-emetics, and in the morning, we’re going to try again with a liquid diet. For now the best thing for it is sleep.”

“Easier said than done,” Jerry mutters. 

The doctor’s smile turns genuinely sympathetic. “How would you feel about another dose of Xanax? The first was low enough I think another would be all right.”

“Yeah.” Jerry doesn’t meet her eyes. “‘m up for that.”

“All right. This shouldn’t take long.”

In all this Steve’s hand has barely moved; he’s slid it up mere inches, cradling Jerry’s head now instead of the back of his neck. Once the doctor’s gone, Jerry leans backwards into the touch.

“I’m sorry you gotta stay, man,” Steve murmurs.

Jerry gives a tiny shrug. “Guess it’s good I came.” He sniffles. “I feel like shit, man.”

“I know.”

“Hey—um.” Jerry pulls away, just far enough to look Steve in the eye—though he quickly looks back down again. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

“Can you just— I know it’s getting late but can you stay, until they get me upstairs?”

“Well, I—I figured I’d stay the night.”

Jerry’s expression flashes from miserable, to confused and surprised and touched all at once. “That’s absolutely not necessary, commander.”

“Jerry. Listen to me,” Steve urges. On impulse he reaches over and grabs Jerry’s hand, squeezing it between both of his own; Jerry peers up again, shyly. “What I said before? I meant it. I’m in this with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend. Because you’re my team. And because I’ve been where you are. I really have been.”

Jerry nods, without taking his eyes from Steve’s. 

“So I stay. It’s nothing big. I sleep in the chair, you wake me up if you need me.”

It’s a moment before Jerry speaks, and when he does, there’s an audible lump in his throat. 

“Are you even allowed to?”

“In my experience? If we don’t bother anybody? They’re not gonna say anything. And I’ll fight it if they try,” Steve adds. “You know I will. Hey, I’m with you, buddy.”

At this, Jerry tears up again; Steve leans over and hugs him, letting him hide his face until he’s (mostly) regained composure.

Not long after they pull apart, a nurse comes to move Jerry. Once again she helps Jerry into a wheelchair; then pushes him down the hallway, into the elevator, and to his new bed. Steve keeps pace behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still just biding my time for this upcoming chapter. I've written this moment a dozen different times and I'm super excited to finally publish it :)


	4. Chapter 4

Steve’s not sure what wakes him; he’s not even honestly sure when he crosses the boundary back from sleep. All night he’s been dozing as lightly as on deployment. He’s woken to car lights out the window, a cart wheeling down the hall—now he blinks into the quasi-darkness and tries to work backwards in his mind.

Once they’d decided to admit Jerry, the rest had gone fairly quickly. They’d brought him upstairs, to a thankfully empty room; given him a toiletry kit and let him wash up before plugging him into the new IV. And Jerry had, with no more fuss, finally gone to sleep.

Steve had sat up a while: to keep watch but also because he felt too twitchy to rest himself. But eventually he’d tucked up in the armchair by the window and drifted off as well.

Now he unfolds, stretches bent-up knees. It’s dark enough in the room to obscure details, but plenty bright enough to see outlines—to see, as his eyes move over the bed, that he’s not the only one awake.

“Hey,” Steve calls, quietly.

“Hey.”

“So, I thought the whole point of me staying was so—so you could wake me up, if you needed me.”

“I thought about it,” Jerry admits, and Steve sits up and leans forward.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Jerry laughs; it’s a short, phlegmy sound. “Can you make it daytime?”

“No. But I can turn the lights on?”

“God, no. Don’t. I think the only thing that would feel less real than a hospital at night is a hospital at night with the lights on inside.” He continues, as Steve pushes to his feet and goes back to Jerry’s bedside. “Like—like when you were a little kid in the backseat, and you’d turn on the little light because you were afraid of the dark. But the light just made it worse. And you felt like everything outside the car had disappeared—”

Steve’s at the bed now, and he nudges Jerry’s legs until he moves over as far as he can. Steve sits, facing him.

Caught between the too-blue lights from the hallway and the too-orange lights out the window, Jerry looks waxy and pale. Not quite a part of the world. And all at once Steve needs to be sure of him—knows that’s what Jerry must need, too—so he lays a hand on Jerry’s knee.

Breath exits Jerry’s lungs in one sharp gust. He slumps; Steve takes his hand away and wraps both arms around Jerry instead, hugging as tightly as he can. Jerry doesn’t hug back, just lies against Steve’s shoulder.

They stay that way for a few good beats, then Steve pulls back, running his hands down Jerry’s arms as he does so. “Talk to me, man. Get it out.”

Jerry sniffles. Wipes his cheeks, then takes a few slow breaths. “Had a—kind of a fucked-up dream.”

“Okay.”

“So, I dream about what happened to Susie—a lot. Like, a _lot_. But most of the time, when I dream about it, it’s more like I’m living through it again. Like it doesn’t change. I watch it happen exactly like I did that day, and—and that’s bad enough, y’know?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“But this time—she died. And I went looking for the sniper’s nest. And when I got there—I realized it was me? I’d been the sniper, the whole time. And even though I was far away, I could still see her body really clearly. And there were other people too, that I’d shot. You were there. And my sister. Oh—and my landlady,” Jerry snorts. “Because dreams are weird.”

“Dreams are weird, man.”

“It’s bad enough you tell people you had a dream about them, and they assume it’s a sex thing—can you imagine me telling Lydia that I had a dream I sniped her?”

“Yeah, better not.”

Jerry laughs more, the pressure of it setting loose a fresh wave of tears, and Steve shifts marginally closer. It's a tight squeeze, sitting face-to-face this way. But Steve finds he doesn’t mind the way their legs press warmly together: knee to thigh and thigh to knee.

“Listen to me,” Steve says, softly. “I’m okay. Your sister’s okay. And I’m assuming that your landlady’s okay too. And I know Susie’s not,” he adds, as another giggle dies in Jerry’s throat. “And I know that that hurts. I know it’s one of the things you’re gonna carry on your back, for the rest of your life. But it has nothing to do with what happened the other day. The other day you _saved_ my life. Jerry. You didn’t kill anyone.”

Jerry’s got one fist pressed to his eyes, and he nods against it, a little too quickly. Steve squeezes his knee again, until he catches his breath and uncovers his face.

“Hey. Jerry, did you talk to anyone, after Susie?”

Jerry nods. “Chin kinda made me.”

“And did you actually work at it? Only askin’ ‘cause, believe me, I know the instinct to just bullshit your way through. My first round of therapy, man, that’s all I did.”

“I may have, a little bit, bullshitted it.” The admission comes with a tired smile.

“I’ll help you start up again,” Steve says, careful not to force eye contact. “Help you find someone. Go with you the first time or two, if you need.”

“Thanks. I guess I—I guess I really should, huh?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You know, I’ve been through, like—mental health stuff before. In my twenties an’ thirties. I guess it was naïve to think I’d done my time, wouldn’t need to go through it again.”

“Well. Head it off, y’know? Get to it before it gets bad.”

Another smile, as more tears well up in Jerry’s eyes. “Bad like ending up in the hospital ‘cause you can’t stop stress-puking?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Steve pats Jerry’s leg as he slides off the bed. He gets the tissue box from the nightstand; then he climbs back in, side-by-side with Jerry this time.

Jerry curls against him, nuzzling until Steve drapes an arm around his shoulders. Then his breath stops a moment, like he means to say something, but doesn’t.

“Hey,” Steve soothes, “you can talk to me, Jer. ‘bout whatever you want.”

“I’ve already said it all,” Jerry whispers.

“Doesn’t matter. Say it again, if you need to.”

A few warm tears soak through the front of Steve’s shirt, and Jerry sighs thickly. “’m just tired,” he mutters, after a pause.

“I know,” Steve murmurs. “How could you not be, man?”

“I just wanna sleep without—seeing any of it.”

Jerry sniffs again, and Steve doesn’t fight the urge to kiss the top of Jerry’s head. Jerry peers up after this, bemused and bleary-eyed. The effect is so open, and intimate, that protectiveness swells tightly in Steve’s chest and he tilts down and kisses Jerry again, on his temple this time.

Then there’s a hand against his jaw. Keeping him from lifting his head again, keeping him from moving back.

And Steve knows. He knows what it looks like when somebody is staring at his lips. He knows what it looks like when they have to force themselves to turn away.

Jerry does turn away. But the sound that rips from his throat while he does so tells Steve quite clearly that it breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” he gets out, voice cracking. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right. It’s okay, Jer.”

“It’s not. It’s not, I’m sorry.” He’s moving so far away that he’s nearly falling off the bed, so Steve gets up instead. Stands at his side.

“Stop it. What do you have to be sorry for?”

“’cause I know you’re straight,” Jerry whispers, so soft that Steve can hardly make it out. “I know that. I know that.”

“Jerry—” Something fundamental has shifted between them: a door has been opened for Steve to peer into, even if he won’t step through. He reaches over, cups Jerry’s face in his hand. It feels easy, natural, even though it’s something he would never have thought to do five minutes ago. Gently, he makes Jerry turn to look at him. “I will not let you apologize for having a heart.”

With a breathless, helpless noise, Jerry nuzzles Steve’s palm. And even though he probably shouldn’t, Steve just lets him; strokes his thumb across Jerry’s cheek, because he _knows_. He knows what it’s like to ache. Knows what it’s like to go months, to go _years_, without that kind of touch. 

Fresh tears are spilling over Steve’s fingers. “Sorry,” Jerry breathes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop it. I mean it.”

Jerry scrubs his eyes; makes it another moment or two before he crumbles entirely. Then he pulls away from Steve’s hand, gulping back sobs. 

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, and sits back down on the bed. Jerry pauses just a moment before slumping against him, crying in earnest now. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise. I promise, Jer. Everything’s gonna be okay— it’s gonna be okay—”

*

Jerry doesn’t quite cry himself to sleep, but it’s a near thing. When the tears end and Steve carefully lets him go, he flops back against the upraised mattress and blinks like his eyelids weigh a hundred pounds. 

“You want some water?” Steve offers. Jerry shakes his head, and Steve tries not to be too worried about that. He’s still on fluids; he can’t actually dehydrate, for the time being. 

Still, it leaves Steve itching to do something, anything, even vaguely useful. In the end he settles for brushing Jerry’s hair back from his face. 

Jerry sighs, tosses his head slightly. “‘re you—?”

“Hey, hey, I’m sitting right here until you fall asleep. And then I’m gonna take about four steps in that direction and sleep in that chair. When you wake up in the morning, I’m going to be here. That’s a promise.”

Jerry’s face crumples. Steve strokes below his lashes with a thumb, like maybe he can ward away the tears from actually falling. “Hey, c’mon, man, don’t— don’t cry anymore. C’mon. You gotta get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right here. Jerry, I’ll be right here. I promise, it’s gonna be okay.” 

A weak smile curves Jerry’s lips. “You keep sayin’ that.”

“Well, do you believe me yet?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it,” Steve murmurs, trying to keep the crackle out of his own voice. He doesn’t consider himself a very empathic guy, but it’s hard to listen to a good friend cry their heart out for that long without wanting to join them. Especially when it’s partially your fault that they feel so awful. “Please try to sleep, man. I could hold your hand?”

There’s a pause. Then Jerry shakes his head, and tears swell, not falling but very real, in the corners of Steve’s eyes. 

Not too much later, Jerry falls asleep. Steve moves from the bed to the chair by the window, and stares out at the streetlamps until he finally slips under as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I have been waiting to write this chapter for a long, long time. I've actually written this scene in three or four other stories that I never got around to publishing... I wanted the ultimate moment to be something that could fit within canon (although to be fair, this probably won't be canon after the season premier). But I digress. I loved writing this, even though it made me just as sad as I knew it would. But there's no way around how sad it is, loving someone who doesn't love you back. Ah well. I hope you enjoyed. And yes, we're up to five chapters now, just because I wanted to see the "morning after", as it were :)


	5. Chapter 5

To his surprise, it’s already bright daylight when Steve wakes the next morning. His eyes flutter shut again in reaction; he lets them stay that way, giving himself a moment to adjust.

Across the room he hears voices: Jerry’s and a nurse’s, presumably. The conversation sounds casual, affable. Steve tunes in a little more and realizes that Jerry’s convincing the woman to undo his IV and let him go to the bathroom because, _listen, I am _not_ sick enough for a bed pan, I think I’ll die of embarrassment and that’s kind of counter to our goals here—_

Chuckling lightly, she agrees.

A moment later, there are slow, padding footsteps; Steve realizes that Jerry’s barefoot, and tries and fails to recall at what point yesterday his shoes came off. Had they still been downstairs? Had Steve helped him? It’s such an unimportant detail but it only highlights the hazy, fever-dream quality of his memories of yesterday. Many moments disappeared before they’d even ended.

Other moments, Steve’s sure he’ll remember for years to come.

Like Jerry’s hand, broad and warm against his face. Jerry’s eyes, with gold flecks that he’d never taken the time to notice before, glinting through a film of tears like coins at the bottom of a wishing fountain. Steve’s own fingertips against scratchy sheets, against soft hair. And both their heartbeats, the only things that seemed to anchor them to the universe, keep them on this side of the ether.

It wasn’t a moment he’d ever expected to share with Jerry Ortega. But now that it’s happened, it can’t be undone, and Steve feels like the very language that his mind uses to think about the man has shifted.

Even though, in this new language, the answer will still be _no_.

Steve opens his eyes, in time to see Jerry climbing back into bed, settling comfortably. Checking his phone, taking small sips of water from a plastic cup.

“Morning.”

Steve’s pretty sure that Jerry takes a moment to collect himself before answering; he sets the water down, and draw a deep breath. “Hey. Sorry if I woke you.”

“I should be up anyway.” And he would have been, normally; he has quite the willful internal clock. He only sleeps in like this when he’s sick, or upset. “Did _you_ sleep enough?”

“Yeah. I only woke up a little while ago, like eightish. That’s prob’ly, like, nine or ten hours, all told.”

“Okay. That’s not bad.”

“Yeah, I feel better. Worn down, but I feel like, when you’re getting over the flu or something: your body’s drained but there’s that definite uptick, y’know?”

“All right. Good.”

“Who knew rest and fluids was actually a thing, right?”

Steve smiles, and Jerry smiles back for a split second before he looks away. Steve rubs his forehead. “You mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Go for it.”

So Steve sequesters himself for a minute or two, peeing and washing his face and rinsing his mouth out. And lingering for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

When he goes back out, Jerry’s drinking water again; for split second, the relief is enough to make Steve’s legs go wobbly. He had planned to return to the window. Instead he plops into the chair at Jerry’s side and lets himself soak in the comfort of being close to a friend. Any minute now, they’ll have to start working things out. But in this instant, Jerry’s safe, and Steve’s with him, and that’s all that seems to matter.

Then Jerry clears his throat, and glances over. “Are you okay?”

Steve frowns. “Yeah,” he replies, letting it be half a question because, seriously, he’s not the one in the hospital gown.

“No, I was just—can’t have been a comfortable place to sleep. You were in this really weird position earlier. Not that I was watching you sleep! I just—looked over—when you were sleeping—” Jerry sighs, and scrubs his hands over his face. And looks to Steve, quite clearly asking for help.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jerry smiles, letting his hands fall back to his lap. “’bout it or about _it_?”

“I dunno which one’s which,” Steve laughs. “So, whichever?”

It’s a long moment before Jerry speaks again, though when he does, his voice is steady. “You had to know. You had to have known. Dude, I’m as subtle as a fuckin’ hurricane. What?” he adds, when Steve laughs again.

“My dad used to say, uh—_as subtle as a fart in church_.”

It works; Jerry laughs too. “Nice. Okay. I’m as subtle as a fart in church.”

“I can’t say I never got a vibe,” Steve admits. He shifts in his chair so he can sit cross-legged, like Jerry is, because it feels right. Feels casual, open.

“Yeah.” The laughter’s faded. “I tried not to be creepy. But I didn’t actively try to be—”

“Totally secret about it?”

“Right.”

“Well, for the record, you were never creepy. In case you were worried about that.”

Jerry makes a celebratory gesture at this, pumping both fists weakly in the air. Then he leans forward, hugging himself slightly. “Can you just—can you do me a favor? If you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

“Can you not—tell everyone?”

“Jerry, why would I tell everyone?”

“I dunno. Just, if you were gonna.”

“Hey, let me be totally clear.” Steve swings his legs down, leans all the way forward. “It doesn’t bother me _in the slightest _that you’re interested in men. Okay? _Bother_ isn’t even the right word. It doesn’t _matter_ to me. And it wouldn’t matter to the rest of the team, either, but that doesn’t mean it’s my place to talk about it with them.”

Jerry smiles, kind of miserably. And Steve gets the impression that he was less concerned about the general concept, more concerned about the specifics of last night.

But they’re both too tired to change the conversation, for the moment.

Instead Steve stretches, continues along what seems like this safer path. “Are you—if you don’t mind me asking—because I know you’ve dated women. So you’re—bi? Bisexual?” He smiles, hoping it doesn’t look awkward. “I wanna get the words right.”

“Always appreciated. Um. But no, I’m—I’m asexual.”

Steve lets his head tilt a bit. “That seems like it would mean—”

“Yeah. It’s, like, complicated, okay? There’s—I don’t feel like explaining it all right now.”

“Yeah, man. Of course. You don’t even have to; I should know this stuff. I’ll— I’ll read up on it.”

“Cool. I love being something that people have to google.” Jerry’s phone lights up then, and he seems all too happy to ignore Steve for a minute. He sends a text or two, then begrudgingly puts it back down.

Seems this wasn’t the safer path, after all.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Steve says, then kicks himself, because he obviously did. Unintentionally, but he did.

“I’m just not feelin’ up to this righ’ now,” Jerry mutters, staring at his lap.

“You want me to give you a minute to yourself? I could use a coffee anyway.”

“Um. Actually, you can—if you want, you can head out. My friend Crystal just texted me to say she’s in the lobby. So she’ll be here in a minute.”

Which seems like very convenient timing, though Steve doesn’t say this aloud. Instead he asks himself: if the conversation’s almost over, what’s the one thing he needs Jerry to know?

It’s not hard to figure out.

“Hey, can I just—I know you’re not in the mood to talk, but can I just say one thing?”

“Okay.”

“You know—I hope you know—that you’re one of my closest friends. And this doesn’t change that, at all.”

Jerry nods, looking not-at-all consoled by this.

“I’m serious, man. I get that we’re gonna have to—have to—I get that this might make things feel different. For now,” Steve’s careful to add. “But I hope it doesn’t make things different, in the long term. I like spending time with you. I love our movie nights. And there are things I can bring to you—that I can’t always bring to someone else. And if I’m not—y’know, if I’m not totally wrong—I think the same is true for you.”

Jerry’s voice, when he answers, is small but steady. “It is.”

“So, I know you’re worn out right now. You’re dealing with a lot, man. But maybe in a week or two, we could talk more?”

Jerry nods. And for maybe the first time all morning, he truly meets Steve’s eyes. Steve smiles. They hold each other’s gaze for a few solid seconds—then Steve shakes himself, and laughs to loosen up the fog of emotion hanging over them.

“Okay. I’m getting coffee. But I’m coming back. Give it ten or twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Not offering you any, because of the obvious.”

“’cause if it didn’t make me hurl, it’d prob’ly just make me shit myself?” Jerry snorts, seeming to relax as well.

“Yup. That. But you think Crystal would like any?”

Jerry’s smile widens, as he’s called out on his obvious lie. “Nah, it’ll be cold before she gets here.”

“You don’t say.”

“She did text!” Jerry adds. “That was her, texting. But not to say she was here. To say she was leaving her place.”

“Okay.”

“And she sorta lives on the north shore.”

Laughing a little, Steve pushes to his feet. “Anything that’s not coffee that I can get you?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Steve prompts, because Jerry doesn’t quite look it.

“Um.”

“C’mon, man. I’m offering.”

Jerry rubs his forehead. “Um. I dunno if they—if they have ‘em in the vending machines here? If they don’t, don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

“Cherry Life Savers? They’re like my go-to, when my throat hurts. And it kinda does.”

“That’s a pretty easy request, dude,” Steve teases, stupidly relieved for a straightforward directive.

“Well. No worries if you can’t find ‘em.”

Steve goes then, wanders until he finds an elevator, then takes it down to the ground floor. He could do coffee in the hospital caf. But he can’t deny the urge to be outside of the building for at least a minute or two, so he leaves. Heads to his truck, digs his go-bag out from under the seat. Changes his shirt then brushes his teeth with a travel kit and a half-empty bottle of water, caring even less than he normally would if anyone sees him spitting toothpaste foam onto the asphalt. Then he takes his meds. Finishes off the rest of the water then lets himself lean against the doorframe for a moment, just breathing the fresh air.

Then he pushes himself upright, and scans the area. He’s been here half a dozen times but rarely with the need for amenities, so he doesn’t know of them off the top of his head. But on the other side of the street he sees a drugstore, next to a bakery that probably has coffee.

So Steve heads in that direction, and buys himself a massive latte and a bagel with cream cheese that he all but inhales as he leans against the sun-warm bricks outside. When the bagel’s gone, he swings into the store and buys four rolls of all-cherry Life Savers. Then he walks back at an unhurried pace, sipping his coffee.

Back at the hospital he has to sign in as a visitor; it’s something he hadn’t thought about, but it’s not like it really matters. But all told it’s almost half an hour before he’s back in Jerry’s room, settling at his bedside.

And despite the sneaking feeling that he was gone too long, Jerry looks—fine. Sincerely fine. The color’s back in his face and, okay, his eyes are still a little droopier than they should be, but the blunt, utter misery is gone from them. Thank god.

“You know there’s cherry in the regular pack,” Steve comments, by way of a greeting. Jerry smiles up as Steve hands him the Life Savers.

“I know. I dunno, it’s a thing.”

“We’ve all got ‘em.” Steve shrugs, and settles down again.

Jerry sets the candies in his lap and stares at them a moment as though they were precious jewels, and not three bucks worth of flavored sugar.

“Oh. Is it like—a _thing_ thing?”

“Hm? No, sorry, just—they remind me of my dad.” Jerry smiles a little. “When I was a kid he definitely had me, like, placebo-effected with them. No matter what was wrong, he’d get me these. And honestly? It always worked.”

“You okay?” Steve prompts, after Jerry discreetly clears his throat.

“Yeah. Sorry. I really am feeling a lot better. Just, y’know, sometimes you get in those moods where you’re just—?”

_Weepy_, Steve’s mind fills in, when Jerry doesn’t complete the thought. But he doesn’t say it aloud either. Instead he rubs the back of his neck and tries to exude as casual an air as possible. “You really do look better, though.”

“Mm. Gettin’ there.” He proffers one of the Life Savers rolls. “You want some?”

“Oh. Sure.”

They fall silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable. They both fool around on their phones and suck on the cherry candies; Steve wonders idly if his tongue is as bright red as he suspects it is.

Then, sooner than he’d anticipated, there’s a rap on the doorframe.

“Jerry?”

A woman, stick-skinny and wearing a Godzilla t-shirt, peers in; and Jerry’s face lights up like the sky after a storm. “Hey, Crystal.”

“What happened?”

“You got here fast, man. Did you speed?”

“I speeded a little.”

“You sped a little?”

“I sped a little,” Crystal replies, plopping beside Jerry on the bed, “because my friend told me he stayed overnight in the hospital but wouldn’t tell me why.” 

“I’ll tell you.” Jerry sounds on the verge of crying yet again. “Just— just— gimme a minute, okay?”

“Hey, hey,” Crystal soothes, drawing him closer. “No rush, man. I’m here as long as you need me.”

She wraps him in a full-body hug, and Steve moves to the chair by the window to give a little bit of privacy. When he looks back a full minute later, they’re only just pulling apart. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jerry’s muttering, as Crystal brushes tears from his cheeks. “Stop lookin’ so worried.”

“Then stop worrying me! Just— is it serious?”

“No,” Jerry snorts. “Not serious. I had— I’m gonna say that I had, like, thirty percent of a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Not a full nervous breakdown.”

“Thirty percent sounds bad enough.”

“It was maybe like forty percent,” Jerry admits, laughing a little. “But I’m okay. Steve convinced me to come in for some fluids and stuff. Oh, that’s Steve,” he adds, nodding in Steve’s direction. “Commander, this is my friend Crystal.”

“Hey, Steve,” Crystal says, with a little wave. 

“Nice to meet you,” Steve replies, automatically. 

Crystal moves to the chair by Jerry’s bed, pulling it as close as it goes. It’s hard not to feel a little excluded as they squeeze each other’s hands, Crystal speaking so softly that Steve can’t make it out; but in the end it’s not his right to feel that way. 

Still there’s a loneliness, that only flares up when Jerry addresses him again.

“Um. So I’m not— I’m definitely not trying to make you leave? But I’m not alone now, so— if you wanna leave? It’s totally cool.”

“All right. I guess I could use a shower.” And another coffee. And a long fucking swim. 

“Right. Bet you didn’t think you’d been sleepin’ in a chair, when you convinced me to come in.”

“I didn’t mind,” Steve replies. It’s reflexive, empty; but then he shakes himself and sees that Jerry needs real reassurance, a lot more than Steve himself does right now. So he goes over, around to the other side, and wraps Jerry in a big bear hug.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, as Jerry gives in and snuggles close. He smells, not unexpectedly but not unpleasantly, like artificial cherries. “It’s okay. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

“Okay.”

“And if you need me before that,” Steve adds, pulling away, “if you need me before that, I’m here. I mean that.”

“Okay,” Jerry whispers again, smiling weakly. 

“Text me when they discharge you, please.”

“I will.”

Suddenly, violently, Steve doesn’t want to say goodbye. It’s hardly for good; he knows that. But there’s a sense of finality, misplaced or not, that makes Steve yearn for another hug so badly it’s a physical ache.

He steps back, before he can lean in again.

“Crystal. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Crystal replies, mechanically.

Steve looks back to Jerry, mouth falling open ever-so-slightly. He knows what he wants to say. Knows what he’d say if this were Danny, or Lou, or Kono, or Chin.

But somehow he’s not sure Jerry will want to hear it.

So Steve swallows his _I-love-you_. Flashes Jerry one last, fond smile—

And leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I definitely want to do at least one more installment in this series, but I think I'll wait until after the season premier. May even possibly come back and modify this to fit with canon, if it wouldn't alter it too bad. But oh well. Hope you all enjoyed the official Jerry Tells Steve fic :)
> 
> PS Crystal was one of Jerry's old camp friends in the Halloween episode. For whatever reason I just really like her, and have been meaning to include her for a while :)


End file.
